Author: Mike Gold

The Alluring Art of Margaret Brundage, by Stephen D. Korshak and J David Spurlock, Vanguard Publishing, retail: $39.95 hardcover, Amazon $16.59 softcover / $28.61 hardcover.

Generally speaking, when I’m reading a biography of a spectacularly talented popular culture artist I rarely encounter a lot of references to the Industrial Workers of the World. In the interest of full disclosure, I was a member of the IWW and I still fully sympathize with the heritage and the goals of the Wobblies. So there.

Irrespective of her personal history, Margaret Brundage’s pulp illustrations – mostly for Weird Tales – speak for themselves. They were spectacularly sensual, evoking the most base emotions in the true pulp tradition. That she was a woman made her work all the more unusual: back then, commercial illustration was very much an old boy’s club, and generally old W.A.S.P. boys at that. Then again, it is likely a man couldn’t get away with Brundage’s corporeal work.

Within a six-year period Brundage produced 66 covers for the vaunted magazine, including 39 straight issues. That’s quite an achievement, particularly given the fact that Weird Tales’ second most successful cover artist was Virgil Finley. Her run ended when the magazine was sold in 1938 and moved from Chicago to New York: her editor did not make the move, and NYC Mayor Fiorello La Guardia had started his infamous crackdown on sensuality in the public media and thus her work was regarded as a liability. The magazine’s circulation suffered from her absence.

Throughout her Weird Tales period Brundage was married to a man named Slim Brundage, a character even by Chicago’s colorful standards. A hobo, labor organizer (for the IWW), playwright, writer, humorist, bootlegger and owner of a coffee house called College for Complexes, Slim was also a member of the Dil Pickle Club (sic), a hidden Towertown hangout for radical literati such as Clarence Darrow, Emma Goldman, Big Bill Haywood, Lucy Parsons, Upton Sinclair, Sherwood Anderson, Carl Sandburg and Ben Hecht. Google around; these are some of the most fascinating Americans ever. Margaret met Slim at the Dil Pickle; their marriage lasted until 1939 although that hardly ended her involvement with the left-wing intelligentsia.

Korshak and Spurlock’s book contains eight essays and an introduction from Rowena; again, in the interest of full disclosure, essayists include my friends and occasional cultural collusionists Robert Weinberg and George Hagenauer. They are all wonderful and worthy on their own.

But screw that. The main appeal is the faithful reproduction of an uncountable number of Brundage paintings. Well, that’s not true: I could count them, but each time I tried I got lost in the beauty of the work itself.

I’d like to say that without Margaret Brundage, there might not have been a Rowena, a Julie Bell, or a Olivia de Beradinis, but eventually talent supersedes silly obstacles such as gender. Sometimes.

Check it out.

THURSDAY MORNING: Dennis O’Neil

THURSDAY AFTERNOON: Martin Pasko

When I started my first term at DC Comics back in 1976, DC’s then-VP of production Jack Adler told me the story of the biggest comic book the company never published: Blockbuster. It was purported to be a mammoth reprint book, not unlike their 100-Page Spectaculars but maybe five times bigger.

But it was a set-up. Jack said there had been this young artist – now a major comics legend – who had been coming into DC’s bullpen towards the end of the day to work at space vacated by one of the production artists. When nobody else was around, he’d poke around the production product to see what was happening. He would then leak noteworthy events to the fan press… and this pissed DC off. So in order to confirm their suspicions they mocked up a gargantuan reprint book called “Blockbuster” and left stuff lying around when only said leaker was around to see it. He did, he ratted the company out, and DC confirmed his guilt.

I won’t tell you who this artist was for two reasons. Number one, I was young once myself (I am now a 14 year old boy trapped in the pathetic body of a 62 year old who deserves it back). Number two, were I in that position at that time, I probably would have done the same. Actually, I might do that today as well, but I’d do it for ComicMix. The title name was later resurrected for a weekly title featuring revivals of the Charlton heroes, but they changed it to Comics Cavalcade Weekly and commissioned a lot of work before deciding not to do it after all.

You might ask what this has to do with Archie’s thyroid. A couple weeks ago Archie Comics came out with a digest comic with serious glandular issues entitled Archie 1000 Page Comics Digest. This book, of course, reminded me of Blockbuster – except it is real.

Don’t go expecting it on the checkout racks of your neighborhood supermarket. The book is an inch and three-quarters thick. In comic book terms, that’s about, oh, 1000 pages. It retails for $15.00, which is quite a bargain, and places like Amazon have it for a hair over ten bucks. It’s also available digitally in three parts for retail price which, given the cost of printing and shipping and returns, is comparatively a rip.

Unlike Archie Comics’ other recent, slimmer tomes, Archie 1000 Page Comics Digest is mostly limited to fairly recent stories. I enjoy the early stuff quite a lot, but Dark Horse and IDW have been covering those bases with several coats of paint. No cover repros, no intros, the only additions were creator credits. 1000 pages of pure story.

I’m reminded of a time when I was even younger and the saints were battling dinosaurs. My parents would buy me one or two of those Harvey 25-centers (thinking the Archie annuals were gender-inappropriate) or maybe one of those Dennis The Menace or Disney vacation specials, plop me in the back seat of the car next to my sister (who did get those gender-inappropriate Archie annuals, which I also read) and drive off to visit my grandmother in Indiana or maybe to a wooden vacation shack in western Michigan alongside the Burma-Shave signs. They were right: those big bargain books kept me quiet for most of the trip.

If I were in my parents’ position today, I’d buy my kid this Archie 1000 Page Comics Digest in a heartbeat. Evidently Archie thinks highly of the format: they’ve got sequels set for October and December.

More power to them. At this price, you just can’t go wrong.

THURSDAY MORNING: Dennis O’Neil

THURSDAY AFTERNOON: Martin Pasko

About every dozen years or so, I sit myself down and ogle King Kong. It’s a great movie, all the more impressive as it only offers a merely adequate cast (by and large). It ain’t Casablanca or Citizen Kane, and some (often me) say Mighty Joe Young is a better ape flick. But King Kong is responsible for two major events: it taught the moviegoer that movies are capable of playing to our sense of wonder on an astonishing level… and it gave birth to the whole ape-fad thing.

Outside of movies circa 1930s and 40s, nowhere is this phenomenon more visible than in comics. To this very day, massive primates threatening our safety if not our sanity are common to the comics racks. While Hollywood keeps on grinding out pathetic great ape imitations and senseless remakes of the original, comics seem to churn out contemporary simians like clockwork.

A partial list – very partial – of simians both sinister and simply silly includes The Ape Gang (Judge Dredd), Axewell Tiberius (Monkeyman and O’Brien), Brainiape (Savage Dragon), Captain Apemerica (MCU), Congorilla (Congo Bill), Cy-Gor (Spawn), Djuba (B’wana Beast), The Gibbon (MCU), The Gorilla Boss of Gotham City (Batman; a personal favorite), Gorilla Grodd (DCU), Gorilla-Man (Atlas/MCU), King Solomon (Tom Strong), Kriegaffe (Hellboy), The Mod Gorilla Boss (Animal Man), Monsieur Mallah (Doom Patrol), The Primate Patrol (Nazi gorillas; go figure), Sam Simeon (Angel and the Ape), Solovar (The Flash), Super-Apes (Fantastic Four), Titano (Superman), and the Ultra-Humanite (Superman, his first continuing villain)… and that doesn’t even count the apes who dominated Julie Schwartz’s science-fiction line or who possess their own planet, as well as those many apes who answer to the name Cheeta or to “Bolgani” or “Mangani.”

Many of these very apes made it to the animated incarnations of their host characters.

The reason for all this is so obvious I won’t insult your intelligence by stating it. However, to update this for the modern Doctor Who fan, “apes are cool.”

So. Why did I choose to bring this to your attention?

Because I haven’t seen Man of Steel yet… and, gosh-darn-it, I like apes!

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

Spoiler Alert: In the current issue of Savage Dragon, writer/artist Erik Larson murdered a bunch of children. All I have to say about that is… it’s about time!

Larson’s book has been around about as long as Image Comics and presently is in its 188th issue, not counting crossovers, spin-offs and mini-series. That’s quite an accomplishment. It’s also one of the most consistently entertaining comics on the racks, and that’s even more of an accomplishment. He’s also a nice guy, but that’s only marginally important to my thoughts right now.

Back before there was Daredevil, there was Daredevil – in a sense, the world’s second homeless superhero. But instead of being homeless because his planet exploded went blooie, he was homeless because he was squeezed out of his own comic book by a group of know-it-all brats called the Little Wise Guys, a Bowery Boys-style knock-off that was introduced early on and swiftly reduced Daredevil to walk-on status in his own book. How cool were the Little Wise Guys? Well, they were named Curly, Jocko, Peewee, Scarecrow, and Meatball… and Meatball was killed off two issues later. I forget how, but I think it had something to do with marinara sauce.

Daredevil was one of the most visually interesting characters of the Golden Age, and that’s saying a lot. He was created by Jack Binder and immediately revised by writer/artist/editor Jack Cole shortly before Cole created Plastic Man and later enhanced by Charles Biro. I cannot fault publisher Lev Gleason for hiding the guy behind his wacky Greek chorus – we are compelled to assume they were the reason for the title’s continued success. The series lasted 134 issues, getting cancelled when the publisher went out of business. This was in 1956, the same year DC brought back and revamped The Flash. But Daredevil himself did not even appear on the cover of the last 86 issues.

Why they didn’t change the name of the book is beyond me.

Loyal comics fan that I am, I have always resented those little bastards. And, to my amazement and amusement, in the current Savage Dragon story arc Erik brought back Daredevil, his arch-villain The Claw, and the Little Wise Asses… and, rather early on in this month’s story, killed the obnoxious rugrats dead.

There’s a morality in Golden Age superhero comics, one that we’ve kind of lost over the decades. The Golden Rule of the Golden Age is “at the end, justice wins out.”

In this case, justice came from the mighty swift sword (well, computer and drawing board) of Erik Larson.

Thank you, Erik.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

Would you like to meet ComicMix writers and staffers Martha Thomases, Marc Alan Fishman, Robert Greenberger, Adriane Nash, Glenn Hauman, and me?

Why? Geez, get a life.

All seriousness aside, the Heroes Convention in Charlotte North Carolina is one of the few large conventions that is actually still about comics. As people who memorize my columns know all too well (when they’re not wandering about Times Square mumbling to themselves), I dislike those huge shows that call themselves comic book shows or, worse, comic cons yet are nothing more than mass media B-list star feeding frenzies. Not that those shows don’t have their place; they do. Just don’t call them comic book shows unless they are actually about comic books.

You know, like the Heroes Convention in Charlotte North Carolina… this very weekend, from Friday, June 7 through Sunday, June 9, at the Charlotte Convention Center, 501 S. College Street.

It’s also a damn good show, well-run by a seasoned staff under the direction of show founder and all-around swell guy Shelton Drum.

Here’s your reward for making it this far into my column: on Saturday at 1:30 pm in

Room 207CD, ComicMix is going to have a panel called “Your Comics Your Way.” We will be making several major (honest) announcements regarding this here ComicMix thing, including the first public reveal of our new ComicMixPro Services!

Wow!

Just go there. You’ll have a swell time. Seriously swell. Tell ‘em Groucho sent you. Maybe they’ll give you a DeSoto.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

Yeah, I’m gonna get political on your ass. Pop culture and politics; gasoline and fire.

I do not know which is worse: the self-victimization that we call being “politically correct” or the rampant naval-snorting of the cloistered elite. I do know there’s a book coming out this August called Doctor Who And Race, and it couldn’t be more full of shit if it had been printed on toilet paper.

Here’s the bird’s-eye lowdown on the book: a bunch of narcissistic holy-holy academicians got together to prove they are smarter than you are by writing a whole bunch of essays that definitively declare the 50-year old television phenomenon Doctor Who to be racist and, oh yeah, sexist.

What evidence do they offer? Their central point is that the lead character, the Doctor, is a white male and has remained that way despite many “regenerations.” To tell the truth, each incarnation of the Doctor also was humanoid, so it follows that the hundreds of producers, script editors, directors, actors and writers, lo these many years, are also anti-space alien. After all, the Doctor clearly favors Earth humans over such space alien races as, oh, say, the Daleks. When’s he going to regenerate into a being made of anti-matter?

(By the way, I am compelled to point out that the phrase “space alien” is amazingly stupid, and if you don’t use it when referring to all those outworlders out there, you are not necessarily prejudiced against Mexicans or the Irish.)

Now I don’t know if Gallifreyans are capable of changing sex and/or race upon regeneration. I’d be perfectly fine if Doctor Twelve were a woman and/or of a different race. Way back in 1963, the original producer of Doctor Who was a woman named Verity Lambert. Can we stop for a minute and appreciate just how revolutionary that was back in the day? She produced the first 86 episodes, moving on to other projects in 1965. There weren’t a lot of women producing television series back then. Or today, for that matter.

Integral to the show are its co-stars, often referred to as companions. Since Elisabeth Sladen was cast as Sarah Jane Smith in the early 1970s, the women who have labored alongside the Doctor have been strong professionals who were much more than set decoration and “save me” victims. Indeed, that tradition actually got its start with the very first episode, with the highly intelligent and cosmically capable Susan Foreman, played by Carole Ann Ford. That, too, was a big deal in 1963.

Since its highly successful revival in 2005, the TARDIS has opened its blue doors to black co-stars and to women co-stars, and even to a black woman co-star. And to many actors of differing origins, reflecting contemporary sensibilities.

This book also cites the 36-year old episode “The Talons Of Weng-Chiang” as proof of the program’s racism because the villain was a Chinese man who was played by a white dude. Well, there’s no argument that Asians have gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to casting decisions, but in 1977 casting white people was more than merely the norm. It’s like slamming Kabuki for not having employed enough women.

Yes, indeed, the lead actor has always been a white male. That doesn’t mean it always will be, unless there’s something about Gallifreyan physiognomy that I don’t understand (and, doubtless, there’s a lot about Gallifreyan physiognomy that I don’t understand). But, deal with this absolute fact, you simpering monkeys of myopia and self-hatred: there is nothing inherently wrong with being a white male. If you are looking to create a new apartheid for that species, you are as disgusting and as morally diseased as those you blanketly define as racist and sexist.

Hey, do you know which other white British male has been around for a half-century? James Bond, as in the James Bond movie franchise. And in all those movies, not once have they cast anybody except a white British male in the lead. Not a single actor from Togo has been above the title. What’s up with that? Clearly, producer Barbara Broccoli is a racist, sexist pig.

Here’s the rub. Around the year 2063, bunch of professors and self-endowed intellectuals are going to rip you a new asshole because you were astonishingly insensitive to groups of people and to ways of thinking that presently are beyond your ken. This will happen; our history makes this perfectly clear. So pull your head out of your own vomit and realize you are no better than anyone else.

Bottom line: if you’re looking to feel your exploitation, start by looking in the mirror.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON: Mindy Newell

THURSDAY MORNING: Dennis O’Neil

They still haven’t made me all excited about The Man of Steel, but at least by now we’ve been given the opportunity to see where it’s going. It’s the human story about a guy who isn’t human, superior stranger in a strange land, trapped in a world he could easily remake and he’s as humble as he is confused as he is powerful.

O.K., fine. That doesn’t compensate for the repetitive redundancy and duplicative dynamic of their restarting the franchise and retelling the origin and screwing around with something that’s been around 22 years longer than the 50-star American flag.

Not that I have an attitude about it. Honest, I hope The Man of Steel is thrilling and successful. The word out of Hollywood – a bitchy and petty place on its best day – is that if MOS fails, say bye-bye to the Justice League movie. They’ll just continue to grind out teeny-bopper versions of their characters for The CW, or whatever they’re calling their teevee network this year.

Superman deserves better than the dark self-obsessed trailers we’ve been seeing and, again, I hope the movie transcends their promotion. Back in 1978, before today’s latest Warner Bros. executives could walk (yeah, there was another upheaval in the corporate order last week), Richard Donner did something nobody had ever done before: he treated a major superhero seriously and respectfully as a cultural icon. In the process, he created a whole new genre of motion picture and he wound up making a massive fortune – for Marvel Comics, who, unlike Warner Bros., got the point.

When it comes right down to it, the origin is irrelevant. It’s a macguffin, an excuse upon which to hang a story. Iron Man built himself. Incredible. Spider-Man got bit by a spider. Amazing. The X-Men got themselves born. Uncanny. Now tell us a story worthy of our massive financial investment in your picture because, outside of idle gossip, we don’t truly care how much money you spent on your financial investment. Movie-goers just want to have fun.

This advice comes way too late, but that’s okay. They wouldn’t have listened to me earlier (although the last time they did we saved The Flash’s superhero costume in the teevee series). If Warners wants to reboot the Superman franchise and create a successful DC Comics superhero movie sub-genre, they should follow Donner’s lead and treat their characters seriously and respectfully as cultural icons. Give us a great story and make us care about the characters as they exist today. Keep Kal-El’s backhand off of his forehead.

In other words, get on with it. Stop trying to imitate Star Wars – that’s the wrong genre. Stop imitating Greek tragedy before somebody remembers Lysistrata was a satire. Stop pissing on the past just because you’ve got a big… budget.

Or, failing that, get Samuel L. Jackson and Robert Downey Jr. to drive a Hummer full of money onto Joss Whedon’s lawn and ring the doorbell. In Hollywood, imitation is the sincerest form of co-optation.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON: Mindy Newell (what?)

THURSDAY MORNING: Dennis O’Neil

Hoo boy. My Uh-Oh sense is screaming its fool head off.

Here’s the inevitable backstory. In the late spring of 1965, Nick Fury Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. replaced The Human Torch in Marvel’s Strange Tales monthly. I liked the Human Torch in Fantastic Four, but this series was sadly second-rate. I also liked Nick Fury and his contemporary appearance in the just Big-Banged Marvel Universe. But I really loved the teevee series The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (damn; typing all those damn dots is gonna wear real thin) so the new Nick Fury was met with a minor adolescent fangasm.

Timing is everything. U.N.C.L.E. was just ending its first season, and the next two would suck the chrome off of a mid-sixties Buick. Over at Marvel, Stan and Jack were just warming up. A couple years later Jim Steranko would take S.H.I.E.L.D., and comics, to a whole ‘nother level. My feelings towards U.N.C.L.E. remained positive, but in a more hopeful sense. That hope actually paid off in the show’s final half-season, and the series remains iconographic to this day.

Meanwhile, S.H.I.E.L.D. became a critical part of the Marvel Universe – but attempts at maintaining it as an ongoing series proved unsuccessful. It attracted some great talent, but not great sales. I doubt most humans were aware of the organization until Iron Man 1 came along.

Maybe it was the success of the Marvel movies that finally got the Man From U.N.C.L.E. movie off the ground. I hope so, as that appeals to my sense of Cosmic Balance. Guy Richie is directing it, and Tom Cruise and Armie Hammer are starring as Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin, respectively.

Uh-Oh.

I can’t say anything about Mr. Hammer except that his great-grandfather, Armand Hammer, became the world’s wealthiest man by selling lots of stuff to the Soviets. This appeals to my Cosmic Balance thing. Nonetheless, he is barely noticed in the trailers to the upcoming movie The Lone Ranger, in which he plays the lead but Johnny Depp plays the Star. But I can say a lot about Mr. Cruise.

Tom Cruise is, in my opinion, a good actor. Sometimes great. He stars as the continuing lead in the Mission: Impossible series. He stars as the continuing lead in the Jack Reacher series. In both series, as well as most of his movies I’ve seen, he doesn’t play the character, he makes the character Tom Cruise. That’s fine for M:I – his character is original, even though the series is not. But, as noted, I have a fondness for Napoleon Solo, the human being spy who kidnapped other human beings to engage them in adventures that even Alfred Hitchcock would find amazing. If the movie is called The Man From U.N.C.L.E., I want to see Solo on the screen and not Cruise.

I also have a fondness for S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Phil Coulson, who earned those feelings in a whole lotta recent Marvel movies. The same guy, Clark Gregg, is playing the character in the new teevee series Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Perhaps that Cosmic Balance can be described by the old sawhorse “What goes around comes around.” But I gotta tell you, my fanboy reaction to Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is one of great anticipation.

The Man From U.N.C.L.E. movie? Not so much.

But I hope I’m wrong.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

OK, folks. It’s official. The zombie thing has gone on way too long. Time to stomp them back into the ground and move on.

Truth be told, and with all due respect to George Romero and Robert Kirkman, I was never much of a zombie fan. There’s not a lot you can do with the buggers, and even by stretching the rules and applying our contemporary wussification of the monster legends… there’s still not that much you can do with them.

There have been zombie stories that I’ve enjoyed, particularly Stan Lee and Bill Everett’s classic “Zombie!” from Menace #5, July 1953. Twenty years later this inspired something of a revival with Marvel’s black-and-white magazine Tales of the Zombie. Or, in other words, it took two decades and the combined talents of Roy Thomas, Steve Gerber, John Buscema and Tom Palmer to finally come up with a worthy sequel.

This is not to say that all subsequent zombie stories sucked. Not in the least. But the massive proliferation of zombies throughout our mass media has, you’ll forgive the expression, choked the life out of the concept. By definition, zombies have no personality and not all that much to say. Their diet is really boring: only in St. Louis can the population stomach so much brain meat.

(I’ve eaten brains… once. Once. Believe me, it sounds better than it tastes. To quote musician Steve Goodman, “Even the cockroaches moved next door.” However, it is more palatable than goat’s head soup.)

As we continue to sashay through the 2013 convention season, it is tedious to see that so many cosplayers have chosen this motif as the subject of their craft. It doesn’t take long to glaze over the horde; if you’ve seen one hundred zombies, you’ve seen them all. And by the time my second show of this year’s convention season concluded, believe me, I have seen them all.

It’s time for something new.

Maybe something that’s actually… alive!

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases